Learning Letters
by Lilan
Summary: Would Denethor have probably been a better father to a little girl? Not AU! And now there is another chapter...and another...and finally, the last one.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimers: the usual_

_All this happens about 12 years prior to the War of the Ring._

**Learning Letters**

Denethor pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting of the mounting headache. Perhaps seeing a healer about these damn headaches was not such a bad idea at all. When Faramir had ventured to suggest it, he did his best to look offended and angry, telling his son firmly that he was no frail court beauty to fuss about a plain headache.

Faramir had just shrugged, in his best 'do-as-you-wish-but-I-warned-you' manner, which Denethor was slowly coming to hate. Well, not exactly hate, but his younger son's ways certainly displeased him. One should not be that wise and calm at Faramir's age!

The Steward stared at the parchment before him. It was a letter from the aforesaid son of his, in Faramir's neat and _very_ legible hand, written on the other side of Denethor's own letter which he had sent to his son earlier.

The letter was written rather dryly and matter-of-factly, which made Denethor frown slightly; just another report, most unlike a son's letter to his father. A brief account of the Rangers' latest activities…ah, they had had a short respite from fighting…good, the poor men must have been exhausted by now. The scouts had not reported any suspicious men or creatures recently…looked like fate had finally had some mercy on Faramir's company.

Wait a minute…what! _"The wound in my side has taken no time to close, after Damrod's masterful stitching. Just as I told it would, and they indeed should not have wasted so much effort in trying to send me back to the City."_

Denethor banged his fist on the desk, barely stifling the words that were about to leave his mouth. He had been wounded? And, judging by Damrod's 'efforts' to take Faramir back, the wound had been a serious one. The Rangers were not commonly known to overestimate their comrades' injuries.

Why the damn had he not known about it? Had he…skipped it somehow in Faramir's previous letter?

Denethor rummaged through the top drawer and found that one. Nothing. Well…the handwriting _was_ a little shaky…could it be some effect of the pain or medicines?

The Steward sighed, still looking at the letter, then snatched a blank sheet of parchment and started writing.

A quarter of an hour later, he was eyeing his own writing, frowning. In short, translating all the high-flown turns of speech into the common language, he had just called his son an irresponsible fool who should know better than neglect his own well-being for the sake of vain pride, and told him angrily that such fools had no right to be in charge of a Ranger company… a page of very civilized ranting.

However, he found himself wincing at the tone of the letter. Perhaps, an odd thought struck him, a usual rant would be much better…feel much better. But it had been such a tiring day…and his head was all but bursting with pain now, nearly making him nauseous. Perhaps going to look into the damned Seeing Stone up the tower had not been the brightest of his ideas in the day…

He shuddered as the dark images shattered his attempt at making light of the thing. What does the young fool know about it all… It was quite easy to be oh-so-noble and chivalrous when one did not know what the Steward did… did not see what he has seen. If only Faramir could…

Shaking his head vigorously, he dismissed the thought. No, he would not put his son at that risk, much as it was tempting to see his unyielding belief in the possible good outcome shattered and to make him listen to his father's counsels more. Faramir was too susceptible to such things – take his dreams of Númenor. Boromir… He would probably just stare at the _palantír_ for some time and then ask Denethor with poorly disguised irritation, "So, you have brought me all the way up here to show me a bloody glass ball? And what am I supposed to see there, Orcs knitting socks for their filthy feet?"

Still, it was too dangerous even for Boromir. His sons did not have the experience, the advantage of long years, to battle with the Dark Lord. He did. He knew it. And Faramir knew nothing, despite his kingly demeanour!

He sealed the letter, having decided to send it as it was, and called for a guard to fetch a courier.

Denethor sat waiting for the courier to come, frowning at the letter. He still felt faint remorse…but was his kind words what Faramir really needed? He was not a child anymore…and his own correspondence was far from warm and heartfelt.

But what if…

The door creaked, and Denethor's eyes snapped up, expecting to see the courier.

However, that was not so, for someone totally unexpected entered the study.

It was a child, a girl of about three years of age or a bit older, plump, curly-haired, wearing a rather dirty yellow dress and clutching a tiny kitten to her small chest. The poor thing mewled pitifully, no doubt half-suffocated in the child's cruelly loving grip.

The girl gave Denethor a startled stare, which gradually became disappointed.

"Not Mummy," she said accusingly.

"Definitely not," Denethor snorted, hoping the girl would go back to continue her search.

The little creature, however, appeared unabashed, and entered the room, eyeing the unfamiliar surroundings with apparent interest. The kitten looked around mournfully, with an air of total submission.

The girl ended her tour of the Steward's study right in front of the desk, where only her bright eyes were visible over the top. Then, she went around it to Denethor himself, who was beginning to feel rather amused.

She was clearly impressed with the brass drawer knobs, reaching one of her small plump hands to stroke the shiny metal.

"Nice table," she dropped casually, looking like a queen giving a compliment to one of her lowliest servants.

Denethor chuckled.

"I am glad that you like it, my lady," he said.

"I don't have a table," she sighed miserably.

"But you have a very beautiful cat over there, and I do not," Denethor smiled.

The child seemed to be considering this for a while, then nodded, her dark curls dancing around her face.

"You don't," she said rather happily, clutching the poor animal tighter still.

Next, her sharp eyes picked out the sealed letter.

"Letter," she pointed to it.

"Aye, that is a letter, little one."

The girl looked at him in what appeared awe.

"You can write?" she breathed. Clearly, in her little mind, that was an accomplishment.

"I can," the Steward nodded. "And you?"

His own sons, at her age, would have covered parchment (and occasionally walls) in strange scrawl and claimed that those were letters; therefore, he expected an affirmative for an answer.

However, the child shook her head sorrowfully.

"No," she sighed, looking down onto the floor.

The kitten mewled again.

Denethor sighed and pulled the girl into his lap.

"I can show you how to write," he said, looking into the big dark eyes. "Just let your cat go, all right?"

She sighed resolutely and released the animal, which, to Denethor's surprise, did not run off, but headed for the hearth and curled on the rug there, awaiting his mistress. Apparently, things were not that bad for the kitten.

Denethor got another piece of parchment and spread it in front of the girl and himself.

"What would you like to write?"

"Mummy!" the girl squealed enthusiastically.

Denethor took his quill, dipped it in the ink and wrote a word.

"Look," he said, pointing to it, "this is how we write 'Mother'."

The curly head shook vigorously.

"Not mother. Mummy."

Denethor smiled and tried to reason.

"But Mummy is just for children, my dear. Why not to write a word for big girls?"

"It's not nice," the girl glared at him. "Mummy is nice. Don't want big Mummy."

"Oh, all right," Denethor consented, writing another word. "Here is your 'Mummy'."

His little visitor clapped her hands in excitement.

"Me, me!" she exclaimed. "Want to write too!"

She grabbed the quill with her fist, and Denethor laughed this time, noting absently that his headache had receded a lot.

"Not like that, child," he said. "Let me help you."

He wrapped the girl's clumsy fingers around the quill, covering them with his own. Carefully, he guided her small hand, writing a shaky word.

_Mummy_.

The child gazed at the scrawl in delight, then demanded, "Again!"

After some time had passed, Denethor understood that he had a very apt pupil. The girl was now able to reproduce the word without any difficulties, and her grip on the quill was remarkable.

The Steward, who felt much better now, smiled at the child.

"Very good, my dear. Shall we write 'Daddy' now?"

"No," the girl replied, continuing to scrawl.

"Why?" Denethor asked gently, already fearing the answer.

"Don't have Daddy," she shrugged indifferently. "Mummy says he didn't come back."

The kitten stretched and produced another miaow.

The girl started and looked towards it.

"Kitty is hungry," she informed Denethor. "Must feed kitty."

"Oh, by all means," Denethor said, lowering her to the floor. "What is your name, child?"

"Elabeth," she said, flashing him a radiant smile.

"Well, Elabeth, if you want to come and write something with me again, then do come."

Elabeth nodded several times, grabbed her kitten and was gone, grinning at the Steward again.

Denethor sat back in his chair, smiling to himself. Oddly enough, he had just played a nurse for someone's child – a girl! – and offered to teach her her letters. Where the heck would he find the time to do that?

His eyes wandered to the letter before him, just a little further than the little girl's work. The letter to Faramir…

"_Not mother. Mummy."_

"_Mummy is nice. Don't want big Mummy."_

"_Captain Faramir, I am most disappointed…"_

"_Denethor, Steward of Gondor."_

"My lord? I have been sent to collect the letter."

He stared at the courier unseeingly, focusing slowly.

"Leave and come back in half an hour," he said coldly.

When he was alone again, he took the sealed letter, stood up and walked to the hearth.

He crumpled the parchment in his hand and threw it into the flames, and then stood there until the letter was ashes.

Returning to his desk, he got yet another sheet, dipped the quill in the ink and started writing.

"_Faramir, you young fool…"_

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Ouch!"

Faramir finally allowed himself to release the laugh he had been holding for what seemed ages.

"This is not so very funny, Captain," there was reproach clear in Damrod's voice as he stuck his unfortunate finger in his mouth.

Faramir sighed comically.

"You are behaving like a child, Damrod," he said.

"I am not," the man objected. "Why all the fuss over a thing that small? It is just a splinter of wood!"

Faramir cocked his head at the Ranger.

"Because," he explained patiently, "a thing that small beneath your fingernail could cause infection to start and spread further, and I am most unwilling to see you without your sword hand. Now let me finish it."

He readied his hand with a needle that served as a tool to extract the aforesaid splinter. Damrod sighed resignedly and held out his hand.

Faramir worked silently for a minute or too, and finally gave a contented nod.

"There you are," he announced, holding the little piece between the tips of his fingers. "Now go and stick your fingertip in boiling water for a moment."

The expression on Damrod's face clearly suggested that he thought his Captain completely and irretrievably insane.

Faramir groaned.

"I am not asking you to keep it there for an hour, man! Just dip it into it quickly, it is quite a good way to prevent inflammation! Any village woman could tell you that!"

"All right," Damrod consented, still quite doubtful.

After he had left, Faramir chuckled softly to himself. Warriors were strange people. They could conceal the most grievous wounds for days, if need be, and moan and complain over mere trifles.

As he was getting to his feet, a slight stinging in his side made him wince. Indeed, he thought with a smile. Only a short time ago, Damrod had made a frightful fuss over his wound, insisting that his Captain should be taken to Minas Tirith and examined by a healer.

As to Faramir's judgement, there had been nothing that serious about the wound. He had seen worse…

No, not much worse, he admitted. He had been a little scared himself when he had looked at the ugly gaping gash in his side, pouring with blood. More than a little scared. He had never been wounded like that before. What was worse, his limbs suddenly had suddenly gone numb and cold, and he had had to fight a surge of panic as he realised that he could not fully control the movements of his body. He had actually felt death hovering over him…

Faramir shook himself awake. Well, it had all finished. He had been right not to agree to be transported back to Minas Tirith, after all. As if they did not have enough cares there… Besides… he certainly did not wish to appear weak under the scrutinising gaze of his father. The Steward did not need soldiers who would fret about every scratch they got. Even less did he need commanders like that.

Slowly, he directed his steps towards the lively group of Rangers taking their midday meal. Damrod was sitting slightly apart, his unfortunate finger in his mouth. He appeared to still be an object of his comrades' merciless teasing.

"Hey, Damrod!" someone called. "Still sucking your finger? We have to check your bedroll some time! Maybe you have a toy somewhere there, to hug when the night is very dark!"

Damrod muttered a couple of words that in a more civil language would mean "get lost".

Upon seeing Faramir approaching them, the Rangers quieted a bit, though there still were broad grins on most faces.

"Confess it, Captain Faramir," someone said, "you have just had your little revenge on Damrod, for that stitching of his that he had to perform on your side!"

Faramir smiled, reaching for the food.

"I am sure I did nothing of the kind… at least I had no such purpose, Anborn," he said, munching on a piece of rather stale bread. "And Damrod's stitching was remarkable. I doubt there will even be a scar."

"Small wonder," Damrod interjected with a hint of pride in his voice. "My mother is a seamstress, and I was very interested in what she was doing when I was a boy."

Naturally, he had to endure another round of teasing, but seemed to have taken it with far less hurt.

"I am beginning to think that you rather enjoyed sewing me up," said Faramir with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I have to apologise, my friend, but I am not very eager to provide another opportunity to you."

Damrod looked genuinely horrified.

"That…that I should wish for such…you must not make such jokes, Captain. I shall never want to see you like that again! And you should have listened to me then. To all of us! Just think of the risk you were taking…"

Faramir threw his hands up, laughing.

"Please, Damrod, you must not start it all over again, all right? I am alive and kicking, you would make a great healer in time, and there is no need to think of 'might have beens'."

Damrod looked unconvinced, but he knew better than to argue his case with his Captain, whose gentle nature never interfered with his authority – and his stubbornness.

* * *

"Have all the patrols reported?" Faramir asked. 

"Yes, Captain Faramir. It seems to be quiet for now."

"Good," Faramir sighed, relieved by what seemed another peaceful night. As far as he could judge, there had been too many peaceful nights. Perhaps, somewhere, the forces were gathering for another blow… perhaps he should send out the scouts further… but not just now. They had been pretty tight, the climax coming with that unfortunate ambush when they had appeared to make a grievous mistake as to the enemy's numbers…it had cost them some men, their healer included…it had nearly cost him his life…

Having dismissed the young Ranger, Faramir headed for the waterfall.

The rays of the sun still lingered upon the ever-falling droplets, though the rainbow that never failed to fascinate him was gone. Now the water rushed down in cascades of liquid fire, of rich reddish gold hue. Faramir seated himself on his favourite round stone a little aside and gazed towards the water.

Once again, he wondered at the wisdom of choosing the place as the shelter for his Rangers. The soothing effect of the quiet rustle of water, of its eternal swift movement was a thing most appropriate and desirable for those who came here after a battle. Particularly because battles were a dirty business…

He sighed, leaning on the rock and closing his eyes. Quite unexpectedly, he wanted to be back in the White City, and wondered at that. Most of the time, he enjoyed being in Ithilien. Today, though…

He thought of his father and frowned. The last time he was in Minas Tirith, Denethor had been in a remarkably vile mood. Faramir had not felt particularly hurt by that; the Steward had not looked very well. Faramir had been foolish enough to advise him to see a healer about his headaches.

He smiled at the memory of his father's reaction. He had been angry at the time; now, however, all he could do was compare it to his own unwillingness to seek help. What a pair of obstinate fools they made…

"Captain Faramir?"

He turned around abruptly, to find himself face to face with a young man he faintly remembered served in the City. The man was all dusty and looked rather weary.

As Faramir offered no greeting (having been somewhat distracted by his musings), the messenger ventured to say:

"I have just come from the White City…with tidings from my Lord Steward. He said the matter was urgent, so I did my best to get here as quickly as was possible."

Faramir grew more alert.

"Has anything happened in the City?" he enquired, barely concealing his concern. "Is…is my father all right? Or…are the tidings about Boromir?"

The messenger shook his head.

"I have not a clue, my lord. There is a letter from the lord your father."

Aware of several pairs of anxious eyes watching him from where the rest of the Rangers were grouped, Faramir schooled his features into a more or less calm expression and extended his hand for the letter.

He noticed the slight shaking of his hand and called himself a fool. Surely, had something grave happened, the messenger would know?

"You may be free for now," he said to the man. "Go and take some food, and rest. You are weary. I shall write the answer tomorrow, and you can take it back – that is, if the matter can wait until the morning."

The messenger eyed him doubtfully, before saying, "My lord Denethor said that he did not wish for an answer."

"What?" This time Faramir could not keep from an astonished exclamation, which drew still more alarmed glances to him.

"He said you would understand when you read the letter, my lord," the man explained.

With a wave of his hand, Faramir quieted him and slowly broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

* * *

"What is this all about?" Anborn whispered worriedly. 

"I wish I knew," Damrod replied, his eyes never leaving their Captain.

Faramir was just unfolding the letter, a slight frown creasing his brow. The Rangers could not hear any words, just follow the change of emotions on his face, and that was a thing highly unusual, for Faramir, as a rule, was very successful at concealing those.

As he started to read, the frown was slowly replaced by an expression of total disbelief.

Finally, he raised his eyes to look into the messenger's.

"My…my father wrote this?" he breathed, his eyes as wide as saucers.

The poor man shuffled his feet uneasily.

"Well…" he started, then checked himself.

Faramir never broke the enquiring gaze.

The man cleared his throat.

"M-my lord Faramir… I was first sent for and found my lord Steward in his study… sitting at his desk. He… he looked deep in thought… and there was a letter before him, but it was not sealed. I was prepared to wait and then take it, but the Lord Denethor ordered me to leave and return half an hour later… that was when he gave me the letter and told me to ride as fast as I could."

Faramir stared at the letter in his hand again. He then turned and took the few paces to the Rangers.

"Damrod, you will remain here in charge for the next few days," he said unusually brusquely.

There was agitated murmur from the Rangers.

"Captain Faramir…" Damrod ventured, "is aught amiss?"

Faramir's eyes mirrored his own puzzlement, however hard the young Captain tried to conceal it.

"Well," he said finally, "it appears I have to report to the Steward of the City shortly."

* * *

Later, when everyone was asleep, he took the letter and came out of the cave and into the light, to have a chance to read it in private. 

The surprises started straight away:

_"Faramir, you young fool…"

* * *

_

_TBC_

_Yes, I have decided to continue it! I have changed the first chapter a bit, as you may have noticed. Reviews are more than welcome!_


	3. Chapter 3

_With special thanks to my dear friends **Cressida** and **Astara**, for their great help and continuous support! Without them, I am sure I would never have had the courage to go on!_

_Oh, I have just realised that the name Aeviel has appeared in a fic I have read, though I don't remember it or the author's screen name. Please, if you are reading this and are not happy with it, just contact me and I will be happy to either write something like an acknowledgement or change the name, though I like it so much!_

**Chapter 3**

"Father?"

Faramir opened the door to the office hesitantly, sticking in his head – much like he had used to do when he was a boy. He wondered at this absently; however, the whole story with the letter was very much out of ordinary.

As they had been riding to the City, he had kept asking himself what his father could have possibly had in mind while writing his last piece of correspondence. It was harsh – but not unpleasantly so. In fact, it had made Faramir smile to himself, and not ungratefully. The figures of speech they had been using for years now had wearied him considerably, and, but for that angry piece of writing, he would have never realized how much.

Whatever the tone, it seemed to him he could easily discern worry behind the words. He smiled, remembering the dressing downs both he and Boromir had received when they were children. Yes, there had been harsh and angry words, but there had always been that first anxious glance, that grip of a slightly shaking hand on a shoulder, asking silently, 'Are you hurt, son?' For only the worst of their adventures had been brought for the Steward's consideration. Like rope-climbing down the walls of the Sixth Circle…

Right before entering the study, he had suddenly found himself missing those scoldings so acutely… and had smiled to himself, assured that he would get another one right away. Why, he was awaiting it very eagerly…

Denethor's eyes lifted slowly to meet his, and his heart sank. They were as cold and hard as ever, and the shadows of the evening made his father's face look sterner still than was its wont.

"Have you forgotten how to knock, Captain Faramir?" he asked sarcastically, the humour never reaching his eyes.

For a moment, Faramir seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. So…everything was as usual. He could trace not a shade of concern in that icy cold penetrating glance…

Slowly, he collected himself. Of course, things had to be so, and he was a fool to expect anything else.

"I apologise, my lord. I am come at your command," he said quietly, suddenly feeling the stinging in his side again. It was strange, for even the long ride to the City had not jarred the wound…

"Sit," Denethor indicated the chair opposite himself.

Faramir obeyed mutely, doing his best to look impassive.

"So you are here at my command! There are things I wanted to discuss with you, yes. Captain, I recollect that I have long expressed my wish to be aware of every happening in the Company you are in charge of. Am I right here?"

"Aye, my lord," Faramir answered, meeting his father's gaze steadily. This game he knew well enough…even too well to feel as hurt as he did now. But he had not expected having to play it once again, not after that letter. He had hoped so much to feel just a little warmth…he would have preferred rage to this calm exterior – which apparently went deeper.

Denethor paused, seemingly to arrange a pile of loose sheets on his right. Faramir almost gave a bitter laugh at the well-familiar tactics. How could he have been so naïve as to imagine that his father's message carried anything other than a rebuke? Was he that desperate for the show of affection? To even start seeing things that were not there?

"Then," the Steward continued with deceptive softness about his voice, "how can it be that I learn of a serious wound its Captain gets _not_ immediately after it happens?"

"But Father…" Faramir made another attempt, "I did not deem it reasonable…"

Denethor cut him short, raising his hand.

"Captain Faramir, allow me to be the judge of what is reasonable and what is not concerning our military. You have not forgotten who your liege lord presently is?"

"I have not, my lord," Faramir replied, reverting to the formal tone again.

"Oh? I am glad of that," Denethor sighed with mock relief. "Much as I should like to continue this highly entertaining conversation, it is getting late. We shall have an opportunity to talk about this further tomorrow. Meanwhile, your supper will be served to you, and you may retire to your chamber. It has been made ready for you. However, first thing on the morrow, you will visit the Houses of Healing and have your wound examined. I am loath to send a wounded Captain to command one of the most important companies in Gondor."

Faramir stood up and bowed, then turned to go. At the door, however, he turned around again, as if about to ask something.

"You have my leave, Captain Faramir," Denethor said coldly.

* * *

After he left, Denethor banged both fists on the desk, barely stifling a curse.

What had made him hurt his son so? For Faramir was hurt, than he had noticed, though the young man had done his best to conceal it.

Perhaps it was all the worry that he had had to endure while awaiting either his son or any tidings of him, in case the wound was graver that he thought. He had half-expected him escorted to Minas Tirith, even brought in a wagon, and had even been fully prepared to send healers to Henneth Annûn. And yet… there he was, suntanned, not a trace of sickly pallor about his face, his movements as swift and graceful as ever, eyes shining as if in anticipation of…what? In addition, he had ridden on his own!

What a relief it had been… and what a surge of irrational anger he had experienced towards his younger son, for putting him through it all!

Denethor lowered his head, clapping a hand to his brow. He had not wanted their conversation to be like this…

Had he maybe tried to talk to him longer—but no, the boy had to have some sleep. It had been a sound idea, to send him to his chamber. After all, however good he looked, he had just made a long and tiresome journey and needed his rest.

_What is done cannot be undone_, Denethor thought with a sigh. Leastways, Faramir would see a healer.

* * *

Faramir lay curled on his side, trying to sleep.

He had barely taken a bite of the supper that he found awaiting him in the chamber, though something in his mind registered briefly that the food had been chosen very carefully to suit his taste. There was even his favourite mushroom stew…perhaps the cook still remembered what he preferred. That night, however, his throat seemed to close against any swallowing motion.

He was angry mainly at himself. He should not have expected any special treatment from his father. Why, he had never dreamed of that before getting the damned letter!

He pushed himself to a sitting position and reached to the bedside table, where the sheet of parchment had been lying the whole evening.

"_Faramir, you young fool,_

_It grieves me indeed that you may sometimes do things like this. Whatever made you hide the fact that you have been wounded? Even setting aside your being my son, such happenings have to be brought to me, as they concern the state of affairs in the military in general. You are not a common soldier; however reckless your brother might be, he would see danger where it is and not try to act a hero when there is no need for this; I should rather call it acting an ass._

_Should anything like this happen to one of your men, would you not want to see that he is safe and in good hands of a healer rather than lost in the wild with no proper medicines – especially if there is a good possibility to get him into the City and proper care? If not, then I shall call you a poor commander, Captain Faramir. And if you refuse to do that for yourself, then I shall repeat myself – you are a damned fool, my son!_

_Now, I will see you in Minas Tirith as soon as possible, to provide me with an explanation of this whole matter, and you had better make it good! As your commander, your liege lord, and your father, I deem I have a right to demand it! Also, you will go to the Houses of Healing, to ensure there are no serious consequences of your stupid conduct._

_You will leave Henneth Annûn with the messenger, the morning after the letter arrives. Choose whoever you consider best to leave in charge while you are absent._

_Father"_

"Why did you have to write this, Father…" he whispered, trying hard to swallow the lump in his throat. Helpless rage surged inside him, and he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it across the room.

Probably all his knowledge of books and lore had not taught him anything. Perhaps he had tried – and quite unjustifiably – to peer beyond the words and find something that was not there at all. After all, he had received a reprimand, and as to the tone of it – perhaps his father had had one of his headaches while writing it!

He curled in the bed again, but after a moment got out and went to pick up the crumpled letter. He put it back onto the table, smoothing it as best he could, and lay down once more. Finally, exhaustion, of both body and soul, took him, and soon he was fast asleep.

His sleep was too sound for him to awake when the door opened to let Denethor in. The Steward regarded his son for a long moment, then bent down and gently brushed the hair from his face, stroking Faramir's cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

A sigh escaped him as he spotted the letter lying on the small table, as well as the condition of it.

* * *

"Why, that Ranger of yours must be a born healer!"

Faramir smiled faintly.

"He is," he acknowledged.

Maelnor, the young but very good healer who had been examining him, clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Well, nothing more that I have to do here," he said. "The wound must have been bathed properly, and the stitching is remarkable. Add to this your age, Captain, and you will have the formula of a perfect healing."

He frowned at the absence of any reaction from Faramir, then turned the young man's face towards himself, taking it in.

"Still, you do not look very good to me," he pondered. "Have you had a good sleep?"

"I have," Faramir nodded.

"Much too pale for my liking…and a little brooding. Have you told me the whole truth? Perhaps that wound is still bothering you? Though it should not be… no inflammation here, even the scar tissue has started to pale…"

"I am all right," Faramir said with a measure of irritation in his voice.

Maelnor eyed him critically; he was not in the least hurt by his charge's reaction, being quite accustomed to having wounded soldiers around.

"Fine, then," he shrugged. "But I very strongly insist that you wait here for a little more and drink the brew I am going to make for you. An assistant will bring it here."

"Thank you, Master Maelnor," Faramir replied.

Enveloped in his thoughts, he barely noticed the woman who entered the room shortly after Maelnor left, until she called softly, "My lord?"

Faramir looked up, a trifle embarrassed, and blushed as she smiled at him a habitual nurse's smile. The woman was in her late twenties, just a couple of years older than himself, with a pretty round face framed with dark wavy hair. She was wearing a white apron, starched and crisp, and in her hands was a tray with several mugs on it.

He smiled in return, and she took a step towards him, prepared to offer him his brew, when suddenly the door was flung open, and what looked to Faramir quite a big yellow ball shot into the room, crying, "Mummy!"

The nursemaid seemed absolutely composed; she just held her tray up so that the new arrival would not upset it. The latter, who appeared to be a chubby little girl, promptly bumped into the cot on which Faramir was sitting and sat on the floor, rubbing her brow.

Faramir could not help a gasp of concern, afraid that the child might have hurt herself. The mother, however, just sighed and, placing her tray on the table, looked down at her daughter.

"Elabeth," she sighed, "I thought I had asked you to wait for me, not run after me!"

The child shook her head reproachfully.

"I didn't run after you," she said. "I ran after kitty."

"I wish you had left that cat at home, just once," the mother sighed again.

She took a mug from the tray and offered it to Faramir, whose gloomy mood brightened considerably upon observing the scene. He drank the brew, grimacing at the bitter taste.

The little girl had been watching him as he did.

"Bad?" she asked, pointing to the mug. "Mummy gives me such bad things when I am ill. And puts me to bed. Are you ill?"

"Just a little," Faramir admitted.

"And your Mummy put you to bed too?"

"Elabeth!" her mother gasped in horror.

Faramir laughed.

"No, little one, not quite so. See, I do not have a Mummy to do such things."

"Ah," she nodded. "And I don't have Daddy. And you?"

Faramir glanced towards her mother, whose face darkened with a remnant of old grief.

"Yes, I do," he said, smiling at the child.

"Oh, good," she said. "It's so bad if you are all alone!"

"It is indeed," Faramir replied softly. "But you have your Mummy…and your kitty, too!"

As if echoing his words, a loud miaow was heard from the hallway.

"Kitty!" Elabeth cried, jumping up and dashing out of the room. Faramir laughed.

"Apologies, my lord," the nursemaid said, fiddling with her apron. "I told her to stay at the kitchens, but she keeps running off, with that kitten of hers or without it… and there is no one I could leave her with at home…"

"It is no matter," Faramir smiled. "You have a very pretty daughter, Mistress…"

"Aeviel," she said. "My name is Aeviel. Oh, but she is such a nuisance here! Cannot sit still for one minute! I used to leave her with my late husband's mother, but she died not long ago, and I cannot afford a nurse for Elabeth, so I just take her with me… Last time she ran off, she gave me a real fright. I went to the Citadel, to see my brother who is a Guard there, and she somehow escaped, and appeared when I really considered seeing my brother's captain about it, with a sheet of parchment. Later told me that 'kitty' had escaped first."

She produced the sheet from somewhere behind her apron. It was covered in shaky writing. Faramir noticed the word '_mother'_, written in big letters, and the rest were '_mummy'_, written over and over, first, as far as he could judge, with the help of an adult, and then independently.

"This is really good parchment," Faramir said, feeling its texture. "My father himself uses something like this. Where did she get it?"

Aeviel sighed.

"She said a lord taught her how to write '_mummy'_. She was bursting with pride when she gave me this!"

"I can well believe it," Faramir laughed, "Must have been one of the Steward's clerks."

After she was gone, he continued laughing quietly, having noted with amusement that Aeviel herself had to be rather proud of her child's first successful attempt at writing. Otherwise, why show him that parchment?

He smiled and lay back onto the cot.

_TBC_

_Thank you for your oh so lovely reviews! I appreciate every one so much! I hope it is a treat for those who wanted to know what was in the letter (though I very seriously considered the idea of never giving the text!)._

_This story will have one more chapter; as to when it is going to be posted, I cannot say. I am planning to go on holiday for two weeks, and I doubt I will be able to have it ready before leaving. Most probably, it will be here after 24 August. Sorry about that!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Dearest **Astara** and **Cressida**, thank you so much! You know exactly what for :)_

**Chapter 4**

Faramir knocked on the door to the office. This time he would not be scolded for not announcing himself properly, he thought with a sour grimace. However, no answer came from behind the heavy door.

He hesitated a moment, then turned the knob. The office, surprisingly enough, appeared unlocked. Faramir shook his head slightly at this negligence, then smiled and stepped inside.

It was his third day in Minas Tirith, and he was already starting to feel impatient. Why was he kept there? His father had not demanded any reports, nor did he seem to want to see Faramir much. Denethor ate his meals alone, and Faramir's were sent to his chamber, so they did not even have an opportunity to see each other in the dining hall.

Maelnor, who had examined him, had informed the Steward that Faramir's wound was practically healed, and therefore there was no fear of sending a sickly captain to perform his duties, Faramir thought with a bitter laugh. Still, when he tried to reason with his father, he only got a cold glare and another strict order to stay in the City for a week.

All this puzzled him, for his father, though known for refusing to give ground on his decisions, was a man of reason, and this odd behaviour of late was a mystery to Faramir – who very much disliked to be left without clues.

He walked around the office, taking in the familiar surroundings. Coming up to a small couch, he could not suppress a smile. It was a surprisingly cosy piece of furniture, for his father; one could be surprised, not knowing that it had been frequently used by the Steward's late wife, for the purpose of not letting her husband to work well into the night. She would have sat there quietly, waiting for him and finally reminding him of the lateness of the hour… Faramir had learned this from his brother, and was under an oath of secrecy concerning the story.

Come to think of that, Faramir himself had used the couch a couple of times, settling there with a book, but Denethor had not seemed particularly happy about that…

There was a loud creak behind his back, and he turned around with an almost guilty look on his face, expecting to face his father.

This was not meant to be, for the person who entered was the little Elabeth.

"Hello," she greeted him, quite unabashed, then frowned. "What are you doing here? This is not your room!"

Faramir could not help laughing.

"You are right, it is not. This is my father's room," he explained.

"Ah," the girl seemed satisfied, nodding her curly head.

Faramir sat down onto the couch.

"And you, my lady?" he asked. "What are _you_ doing here? Has your cat run away again?"

She shook her head.

"No, kitty is sleeping. I came to write."

To _what_?

The child must have noticed his confused expression, for she explained gravely, "The old lord who sits here taught me how to write _'Mummy'_. He wanted to write _'Mother'_, but I didn't like _'Mother'_, it isn't nice. He said that I could come again."

Faramir was thankful that he was sitting.

"W-what…old lord?" he stammered.

Elabeth shrugged, as if wondering at the stupidity of some people.

"It's his table," she pointed to the huge desk. "And he taught me to write. He helped me, and now I can write myself!" she grinned triumphantly.

Recovering enough from the shock, Faramir smiled at the child and beckoned her to come closer.

"Elabeth," he said, looking into her big bright eyes, "will you tell me about this lord, please?"

* * *

When Elabeth finished, he sat back, quite overwhelmed with her story. She had even shown him the drawer where his father kept his parchment, and he had had an opportunity to compare it with the sheet, which Aeviel, Elabeth's mother, had forgotten to take back. The sheet looked as if it indeed had been taken from Denethor's drawer… 

Still, he could not believe his father would so willingly spend time with a stray child! Not when he did not have time for his own, Faramir thought with a touch of bitterness, but that quickly melted at the mental image of the formidable Steward of Gondor helping a little girl to write her first letters. That was a totally new side of Denethor, and an unexpected one, too.

He turned his eyes to the girl once again, meaning to ask her more, but there came a hesitant tap on the door.

"Enter," Faramir called.

The door opened, and he saw a young Guard standing there.

"My lord Faramir," he bowed. "I apologise for the intrusion, but I am looking for… Elabeth!"

Faramir smiled inwardly, thinking that the note of exasperation was a clear mark of the people who knew the little runaway.

"Uncle Dinias!" she cried, obviously delighted to see him, and dashed across the office to throw herself at him.

'Uncle Dinias' caught her in midair, looking at her severely.

"What did your mother and I say about _not_ wandering around here?"

"But I wanted to write," she objected, wriggling in his arms.

"What about your kitty?" Dinias said reproachfully. "You left her all alone!"

"Oh," Elabeth seemed momentarily confused. "Then I'll go to her."

In a split second, she wriggled out of Dinias's hold and ran into the hallway.

"Elabeth!" the Guard exclaimed, then shook his head comically. "That child will once bring a whip onto my poor back, no doubt."

Faramir laughed. "It is no matter, Dinias, she is no more than a child. And, from what she told me, my father has taken quite a liking to her!" He wondered at his own words.

Dinias sighed.

"It is good that my sister does not have a clue who her daughter spent the afternoon with! I was terrified when I saw her leaving the office! Thought that the lord Steward would have my head."

"I assure you, my father is not that quick at having people's heads," Faramir laughed.

Dinias looked unconvinced.

"But she was there while he was writing important correspondence, my lord!" he exclaimed. "Why, I gather it was a letter to you that the lord Denethor must have been occupied with when she came!"

Suddenly, Faramir grew more alert.

"How do you know that?" he asked, a little more sharply than intended.

"Well, I met the messenger that the lord Denethor had called," the Guard explained. "And he told me that there was a letter, but my lord Steward had not given it to him. He told Anrod – that's the messenger's name, my lord, – to leave and come back later, and Anrod said later he could swear that the lord Denethor had had to rewrite the letter! That child must have been the cause of it! I just wonder why he did not try to investigate the matter and have someone punished!"

"Peace," Faramir said quietly, stopping poor agitated Dinias. "I am sure that my father has long forgotten about that incident."

Dinias gave an audible sigh of relief and immediately seemed ashamed of his recent behaviour.

* * *

After the Guard left, Faramir took another look at the sheet of parchment that Elabeth used for her exercises. 

'_Mother'_, written by the sure hand of a grown man – and _'Mummy'_, scrawled by a child who had hardly held a quill before… There was something indescribably cute in the contrast.

A contrast very much alike to the one between his father's usual correspondence and that last letter of his.

He smiled foolishly, still looking at the sheet, flooded by a wave of warmth and gratitude. So he had not been wrong, and Denethor ordered him to return to the City out of a father's concern, not a ruler's displeasure. For now he was almost sure that Elabeth's lucky intrusion had triggered something within his father's soul that had not showed for years, and that 'something' made him write an angry and worried letter, rather than a cold and impersonal one.

Most likely, even keeping him in the City was a means of letting him some time to recover and rest…

Faramir had a slight pang when he thought of his own letters: no, they were not exceptionally warm either… had he, too, failed to convey what he _really_ felt?

* * *

As Denethor was nearing his bedchamber, he was slightly surprised to see a faint glow of light coming from under the door. 

When he entered, the first thing he saw (with a certain measure of satisfaction) was the fire dancing merrily in the hearth. It had already warmed the room, and the Steward was glad to have it. Even on this summer's night, it was quite chilly and he had already regretted his earlier unwillingness to have the fire built up. It appeared some servant was either too careless to listen to his lord's wishes, or very considerate as to his comfort…

He produced a quiet snort at the thought, and then noticed Faramir sitting in one of the armchairs.

"Father," his son greeted him, getting to his feet. "Would you care for a goblet of wine?"

Glancing towards the table, Denethor saw that everything had been prepared for a quiet drink for two. There were also some pastries and fruit.

"You are out of your mind," he blurted out angrily. "I do not…"

He stopped short, for his son seemed to totally ignore him. Faramir poured some wine in the two goblets and indicated a chair with a wave of his hand, at the same time offering Denethor his drink.

The Steward did not have a clue as to what was happening. Since Faramir's return to the City and their interview, his son had looked remarkably sullen and gloomy. Several times, it had come to Denethor's mind to try and mend the misunderstanding that he himself was responsible for, but he could not think of a good way to tackle it. With Boromir, a matter like this one would have ended in his eldest yelling furiously, and he, Denethor, could have felt indulgent towards his son – but that was never the case with Faramir. The boy never let himself lose control, and it made Denethor rather uneasy, whenever they had any arguments. He strongly suspected that his youngest would listen to everyone's counsels and still have it his way in the end. Denethor wondered why it annoyed him so – after all, was it not his way, too? He truly wished he had never written the cursed letter.

Meanwhile, he found himself seated in his chair with a goblet of red wine in his hand. Faramir poured one for himself and sipped a little. He closed his eyes, savouring the wine; Denethor frowned slightly and sipped his, too.

"I met little Elabeth today," Faramir said, keeping his eyes on the goblet.

"Who is Elabeth?" Denethor asked in mild surprise, noting that the wine was good indeed. He was just taking another sip when Faramir answered.

"Why, the girl you taught to write the word _'Mummy'_, Father. Have you forgotten?"

Denethor was lucky to have swallowed the wine; otherwise he would have been in serious danger of choking to death.

"What… How…how do you know?" was all he could manage, staring at Faramir.

The young man shrugged with a perfectly nonchalant air.

"Nothing can remain a secret very long, Father," he said sombrely, although Denethor thought he could discern a merry glitter in his downcast eyes.

_You are mistaken, son, some things can_, he thought with sudden bitterness, thinking of the Seeing Stone.

"I learned of the 'old lord', who taught her to write, yesterday, when I was in the Houses of Healing, but then I just thought what a kind man he must have been, for a child that small to like him so," Faramir continued. "And today, I came to know that it was you, Father."

"Yes, it was I," Denethor shot back with unexpected anger. "One would say it was not like me, was it?"

_Just like that last letter you wrote me_, Faramir thought. _It was not like you either._

"It was not like me," Denethor concluded meanwhile. "Because I lost all patience with you, Faramir! How could you have failed to inform me of your wound? And then you mention it casually in your letter, and I do not know if I can believe it, if you are well indeed, or lying on your deathbed…that is _not_ how a leader of a company of soldiers behaves! I do not think Gondor can afford captains who do such foolish things!"

Faramir had not expected the attack, and again, just like those days before, he felt a lump in his throat. The reasons, however, were very different…

"I did not want to trouble you for mere trifles, Father," he said. "At the time, I did not think it was possible to transport me to Minas Tirith, and later I felt much better, so there was no need to bother anyone."

"And what if you had not felt better, Faramir? What if you had died? How would you have helped your company by this?" Denethor said, still sounding angry.

_What would have happened to me then? How could I have ever been able to live through either of my children's death?_

Something prevented him from saying these words, and suddenly, he was afraid that Faramir, again, would only hear displeasure at his commander's skills… He looked at his son, struggling to find more words to say the unsaid, but never did it.

For by the look in his son's eyes, Denethor knew that he understood.

"Let us finish that wine," Faramir suggested with a smile.

* * *

"Mummy! It's so beautiful!" 

Elabeth appeared absolutely awed by the thing on the bed beside her. It was a doll, plainly a work of art, dark-haired, with delicate features of her porcelain face, dressed in a creamy gown decorated with golden laces.

"What does one say?" Aeviel reminded.

"Thank you!" the child exclaimed enthusiastically, beaming at Faramir.

The mother smiled at her daughter's delight.

"You shouldn't have, my lord," she said, shaking her head in mild disapproval. "The toy is much too expensive…"

Faramir waved her protests aside.

"Consider it a whim on my part," he said. "And I do believe that your daughter will handle it with care!"

Aeviel was about to say something else, when there was a knock on the door.

"Aeviel, this has just been brought for your daughter from the Citadel," a young nursemaid informed her, throwing timid glances at Faramir.

Aeviel unwrapped the package and gasped.

In the wooden box, cushioned upon white cloth, was lying another doll, this time a blond one in a blue gown…

"Who…who sent it? Do you know?" Aeviel managed, turning to the other girl.

It appeared she did not have a clue.

_THE END_

_Sorry for keeping you waiting for so long! Here's the last one!_


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